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Pacified

marxthebaby

By marxthebaby,
in Story and Art Forum

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marxthebaby Diaper Royalty

marxthebaby

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Chapter 1

He awoke to the sound of a car's engine starting up, and immediently knew that something was wrong. For one thing, he was in a great deal of pain-something he hadn't felt for God knows how long-he was sitting in something that was soaked, that clung to his bottom, and his thighs and bottom were hurting so badly that he couldn't help but start crying. What didn't help was the alteration of his vision; every bright light made his eyes ache, and everything looked to be larger than he was.

As he moved himself around, he felt something tighten around his body, and unleashed an annoyed curse when he found that it only served to put pressure on his already aching thighs and bottom. Sobs erupted from his lips before he could hope to stop them, and he heard someone sigh. "The bastard's awake, Fazbear." The name automatically sent a wave of hate and anger throughout his body, and before he could react, opening his mouth to scream, something was forced into his mouth.

"He's just being difficult; just check his diaper and make for damn sure he's nice and wet." At the sound of that, he felt confused; what did they mean, nice and wet? If they put him into a diaper, didn't they intend to get him out of it? He was about to ask, when a hand jerked back the waistband of the wet diaper and a man with black hair peered into it with a malicious grin on his painted face. "The poor thing didn't wet his diaper enough yet; thank God. I guess he's just cranky." What in fresh hell was this? Frustrated, he spat out the rubber thing that had been in his mouth and tried to speak, "What the fuck is going on-"

Nobody seemed to pay his words any heed; whoever had spoken earlier was silent, and the painted man just plucked the rubber object up from the ground, dusting it off before plopping it back in his waiting mouth. Bothered by this development, he spat it out once again, and began talking once more, "Tell what's happening! I didn't sign up for this shit-" when, once more, the dreaded object created to make him placid was forced back into his mouth. The painted man smiled when he sighed in surrender, folded his arms, and began sucking on the rubber. "What a funny baby; you just want attention, don't you? Spitting out your cute little pacifier and babbling like that; you're just so adorable, trying to be a big boy."

This was strange; did they not hear him, or were they just not listening to a word he said? Bothered by being ignored, he plucked the offending rubber from his mouth again, and this time, he screamed his words at the top of his lungs in hopes that somebody would listen, "Why am I here, and who are you people?!" After a moment of heavy breathing, he saw the painted man smirk coldly as the engine stopped, and heard a loud click when the man pressed down on the thing that had been holding his body in place, lifting him from it with ease. He was bounced up and down gently as the man carried him out of the car, murmuring in his ear, "Be quiet, baby; it's okay. You're just confused because you're in a new place, aren't you?"

For a moment, he was silent, attempting to digest whatever was going on, when he realized something that was truly horrifying. This man wasn't much larger than he was; his long, now fleshy legs were still dangling from the man's hold on his bottom right over the arms that clutched him, and he still retained his budging muscle. His wavy, brown hair remained as long as ever, and he was wearing a sodden cloth diaper big enough to swaddle him. He was human again, still an adult, but how, and why? As he tried desperately to escape the grip that held him firmly in place, he saw the other problem with this.

The man who had just left the car, the one who had an oddly large diaper bag slung over his shoulder and walked at the flank of the one who held him, was carrying a loaded machine gun that was aimed right at his body.

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marxthebaby Diaper Royalty

marxthebaby

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Chapter 2

He could feel his heart hammering against his now heaving chest; the stern-faced man holding the machine gun looked anything but friendly, and as he began squirming once more, the man holding his body in place said something that made his blood run cold, "You have permission to shoot if he tries anything." A soft whimper, choked by fear, escaped his lips as he clung tightly to the man, and began to speak again, "Isn't the gun a bit much, bud-" when he felt the muzzle of the gun, hot and painful, against his head. The sound of multiple bullets clicking into place sent fear burning throughout his entire body.

He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing heavily as his bare feet struck the ground below. A gloved hand seized his own tightly, and the painted man cooed in his ear, "Baby has to walk for Daddy, or Daddy will be very disappointed. Would baby like that?" If disappointment meant a body riddled with the bullets of a machine gun, then he most certainly wouldn't; he shook his head wildly as tears trickled down his cheeks. The first step in the soaked, cloth garment that swathed his lower half was leaden; so heavy that he could swear he'd been drugged. When he hesitated, the gun returned to his head, and he began to cry loudly, terrified by the prospect of death.

His captor was silent, and he could hardly breathe; urine was oozing down his reddened thighs, his legs were shaking unsteadily with fear as he lifted a foot, taking the second step. He looked over, hesitating again, and carefully lifted the other leg, taking another step, then another and another. With each step, he could only think of the loaded gun waiting for him if he stopped for too long. By the time that he was finally done, the painted man had led him to the front door, and opened it up. He tried to climb into the man's arms, desperate for a gentle touch, for something that would make the fear in his heart stop, but the man shook his head.

"Why the fuck are you not consoling me? If I'm supposed to be your fucking baby, then why would you let that bastard aim a gun at me, huh?" He questioned the painted man, as the one who held the machine gun locked the door behind them. No response was given; the painted man just pulled back the waistband of his diaper to peer inside, and spoke rather coldly, "As I suspected, he hasn't wet nearly enough, and he's already cranky." Cranky? Now that bothered him; he let out an angry wail, stamping his foot against the hardwood floor, and yelled, "Fucking listen to me, you cunts! You're both fucking insane, you're both-" A hand rose and connected with his cheek, and he was sent flying into the door. Pain radiated up and down his jaw, and blood trickled down his swollen cheek when a splinter of wood sliced open his flesh. The painted man was glaring down at him with the man holding the machine gun and diaper bag at his side, and spoke so harshly that it stunned him, "Running your mouth like that, whining and throwing a fuss like a naughty thing... You were obviously never given proper discipline, were you?" He could only cry softly, clutching his bloodied cheek, as he was picked up and carried away.

When the painted man brought him into a padded room at the end of a hallway, he saw a device waiting for him in the middle of it; a highchair with metal restraints. He was dropped inside of it, and even when he began to cry harder, no comfort came to him. The restraints locked around his wrists with a click after his arms where forced against the tray, and his ankle were locked against the legs of the chair. There was no music, no sound, and no other things in this room; just four, white walls, each one made of spongey padding. "This room is your time-out room; you'll be staying here until you behave." He felt his breathing hitch in his throat when the painted man spoke, and began to speak through his sobs, "No, no, no; don't leave me here, Daddy-" once more, he was cut off by a harsh remark, "Daddy is not in the mood for his baby's whining! Daddy needs a bloody rest, and his baby boy needs some time-out in the naughty chair. Now Daddy is leaving baby here, and baby will tolerate his punishment, or Daddy can do something much worse." Tears streamed down his cheeks and struck the plastic chair with a thud when the man's angry glower raked over his body like a cat's claws, and he could only watch as the man left the room, and locked the door with a mighty clang.

He didn't know that what would follow was going to be the worst thing he'd experienced in his entire life.

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marxthebaby Diaper Royalty

marxthebaby

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Chapter 3

He could hardly move in the state he was in at the time, strapped to the fiendish contraption, and at first, he began protesting at a high octave despite the painted man's earlier warnings that it was futile, "I've done nothing wrong, you pieces of shit! Now get me out of this, now, or I'll-I'll..." When no response was given, the silence started working itself over his mind like an eraser, grinding it down to nothing with each swipe. The urine in his diaper had not only seeped down his aching thighs, but it had pooled around him in a sickly, wet puddle he had no escape from; with every movement, a reminder of his infantile deed was given by the soft squishing of the wet diaper against his burning backside.

After an undetermined amount of time, he wasn't even able to scream; he could only breathe heavily, hiccuping occasionally, and cry over the plastic tray that so cruelly kept him locked into the uncomfortable position. His back felt stiff from sitting down for such a long while, and his calves couldn't be more taut then they were. The words he could say, the ones he thought had vanished into the recesses of his mind, were from another time, when he was a small child, scared of reprimandings given by adults who held so much power over his insignificant life, "I'll be a good boy, I'll be a good boy, I'll be good." Silence answered his pitiful whines, and he was forced to live with the sound of breathing-something he hadn't heard from himself in such a long time that it stunned him-and crying.

The silence continued working its way at him, eating away at his mind, and he began seeing things; shadows, creeping about in the corners of the padded room. Shapes, undefined by nature and born of something wicked, moving towards him, shuffling over to the chair he was now trapped within. He began to cry harder and more hysterically than he ever had, this time begging, "Please, please, I can't stay here! They've come to get me, they're going to hurt me, please!" The darkness shifted into shapes, shapes he now recognized; a creature with a hooked hand and a fast walk, one who shuffled slowly, another who held a tray of some kind, another who hopped like a rabbit.

They were smiling, laughing at his misery, and he wanted them to stop. "Leave me alone, goddammit, leave me alone!" He cringed into the plastic seat of the highchair, but because his movements were so restricted, the movement just made the restrains bite painfully into his wrists and ankles. The laughter and darkness was all around him, now; they were coming closer, closer... They were right near him now, leering at him, teeth bared and eyes lit with desire to tear him apart. Hands too powerful to be human grabbed his arms, and he let out a scream so loud that it he could've sworn echoed off the padded walls, but he was ignored. He closed his eyes, but the fire had already come for him. It was..it was consuming everything...he watched from the inside of the head...the springs closing in, he still felt them..the pain after they hit his body, they crushed him...

By the time that the door opened, and the painted man walked in, he was still watching the shadows dance. He still felt the fingers against his skin, gripping the fabric of a shirt he no longer had, tugging pants he no longer wore, and the cutting of metal through his skin after one, simple mistake, a breath of air on something that didn't tolerate it. The hallucination became so vivid that he felt himself start to run, move his body, from the spot in which he had been pierced with the dreaded springs, but the thing trapped him faster that he'd been able to react, and his legs were forever frozen inside of something he had once hated. The damn creatures, they were mocking him, mocking him, asking how it felt, so he answered them, unable to do anything else, "It feels horrible, okay?! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

When they finally left, they were warded off not by the sensation of being lifted up from the highchair, but by the voice, "I should be the one saying that I'm sorry." He opened his eyes to find that he was clinging desperately to the painted man, whose dark eyes were full of nothing but regret and pain. Shivering, relieved in a way that sickened him, he whispered, "Make them-make them leave me alone." The shadows had dissipated, but he knew they were still in the dark crevices of his mind, they were everywhere, and they were watching him like vultures awaiting their next meal. A gentle hand ran through his curly, brown hair as he sobbed, and the man began rocking him, whispering in his ear, "Daddy will get rid of all the bad monsters, okay? Baby shouldn't be scared; he'll be all better, it's okay. Just be a cooperative boy from now on, then Daddy won't be so hard on baby."

He found the gesture ironic; the murdered comforting the murderer was strange, indeed....

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marxthebaby Diaper Royalty

marxthebaby

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Chapter 4

He didn't move the entire time he was carried out of the dreaded room; he couldn't bring himself to so much as lift a finger, considering what had happened. His warm, moist cheek was pressed up against the soft fabric of the man's striped shirt, and only tiny, choked sobs escaped his throat. With each step, he knew they were following him, ready to strike; they were hiding, hiding from him so he wouldn't see, but he knew. He saw...he saw them, he saw them so much clearer from where he now was. This time, the one that shuffled closest was the one whose hand resembled a hook, and he could only cringe into the man's chest, sobbing at the familiar sight of that goddamn hook.

Hands did not grab him, this time; they reached his way, rows of sharp teeth bared into what were meant to be happy smiles, but something stopped them. He then realized why they were lingering in the spot, and his heart began to pound into his rib cage; they were laughing at him even more than they had before, in a mocking fashion. His sobbing became steadily louder with each jeering laugh, he threw his hands over his ears as he had done so many times to drive those bastards away from his nightmares, his visions, but it didn't work. One of them, the rabbit-earned shadow, grabbed his cheek with a powerful hand, jiggling it and mocking him, "Does the weak little baby need his Daddy? Does he need to be comforted? Is he a scaredy-bunny?" The voice was distorted, and mechanical, as if emerging from the voice box of something that was no longer meant to function.

This mockery only served to make him angry; he tried desperately to swat the hand away, responding in an annoyed manner, "Go away, you annoying brat!" Deep down, his fear was gnawing at his heart, massaging another eraser over his already addled mind so that it itched profusely, and he was in a great deal of pain from the diaper's constant rubbing. The others joined in with the rabbit-eared bastard's mockery without so much as a greeting, their laughter consuming everything as they drew closer and closer, "How the mighty have fallen; just look at him! He's even wearing a diaper; he's nothing but a big baby!" One of them spoke excitedly, making him cringe at the loudness of the voice, and he felt tears stream down his already wet cheeks. He could only cling tighter to the painted man, but even he was fading away from his vision until they had him alone, all four of the-

Four? He stared up at the shadowy, dark creatures that now towered over him, forcing everything to fade away into a darkness that was impenetrably thick. As his body was lain down upon a flat surface, they served to remind him of what it was with each passing second, "Looks like the big baby wet his diaper!" "Daaawww, does baby need his widdle diapie changed? Can he say that; I bet he can't!" Even when he clamped his hands over his ears, shaking his head, whispering under his breath, "Shut up, I'm not a baby, I'm not a baby-" he was given a pat upon his naked stomach, one all too firm and obviously meant to inflict pain. Sobs escaped his lips as he began screaming wordlessly, this time made speechless by the hands he now felt, each one grabbing a limb, trying to tear him apart. Eventually, his frantic wails took on meaning, and he couldn't stop the dreaded name from escaping his lips, infantile and garbled, "Mawi, Mawi! They-they-"

The fingers, cold and metallic, dug deeper into his skin as the ever-familiar springs of the damned suit continued sinking into his sensitive, pale flesh, desperate to draw blood. He couldn't move; something froze him to the spot, and he could only bawl with each passing moment. Everything was blurred by his own tears, but nothing could hope to get rid of the pain he now felt, the deep aching of his death. "I only wanted to leave. I wanted you...I wanted you five..." He was broken off by his own, traitorous sobbing, and was only able to complete his sentence through the clamor of their mocking laughter, "I wanted you to just leave me alone! I-I just wanted to be left alone!" This time, he really could feel his own body falling, falling under the weight of the thing he had dared climb into, that metal deathtrap, the fingers digging into his bones.

It was then that he heard the music; the music of that music box, the same one he had used against them and the same one the new worker had used against him. For some reason, the peaceful chiming combined with the new sensation of powder over his groin allowed the shadows to crawl back into his mind to lurk among the crevices again. Light pierced his sensitive vision like a knife through flesh, and he rubbed at his wet eyes until he could make out the painted man, whose hand threaded through his brown curls, "You're being such a good baby for Daddy, aren't you, precious?" For once, he was thankful for baby talk; he nodded his head vigorously, and kept his eyes on the man as he taped a new diaper around his waist. He kept himself lifted off the table so the job would be easier, though part of himself scorned the very idea of obeying this man, let alone helping him. "Mawi?" His voice was soft, very tentative; he was walking on thin ice by using that name. However, the man only smiled coldly, scooping his body from the changing table as he crooned, "What is it, baby?"

Tears streamed down his face as he buried his face into the man's bony shoulder with a soft whine. "D-don't leave me with them! Th-th-they tried to get me, they were mocking me, and it hurt so bad-" He broke off, unable to say more regarding his demons to the man who was once one of them. Without a word, the man bounced him gently as he carried him into a different part of the room they were now in, revealing a large crib, the bars colored a strange shade of gold to taunt him. He decided to disregard the color of the oversized crib for now, and watched in terror as the man began to drag him from his body, crying loudly as his fingers were pried from the fabric of his shirt, "Mawi, no! Please, I-I can't stay with them, they'll-they'll kill me again, I know it, I-" Mari shushed him, placing his shivering body into the crib and raising the sides. He watched as the painted man grabbed a chair, and set it down right next to the crib, and reached a hand through the bars. Relieved, he clutched the man's gloved hand, and closed his eyes as he heard the man whisper, "Daddy will protect baby, no matter what; he just has to forget all about the things he did and have a nice, long nappy-bye for Daddy so he can grow up big and strong."

It was probably easier said than done; this man would probably never forget the murder.

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